


Diablo drabbles/ficlets

by orphan_account



Category: Diablo (Video Game)
Genre: Multi, i dunno either
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 07:03:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8568817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: short council-based stuffs that i don't feel like posting individually.probably gonna have porn somewhere, but i'll mark accordingly.





	1. cuddle pile

**Author's Note:**

> "kab why do you have so many misc drabble things" because i'm bad at finishing shit and good at getting rid of it lmao

Itherael is curled quite comfortably on the large couch, propping themselves up on an arm and reading. The page flicks by while Imperius watches, arms folded loosely.

“Are you aware that this is my couch?” He asks, head tipping slightly with the words. Fate looks up from their book, seeming bewildered before they see Imperius, behind them; they have to crane their neck up and back awkwardly to see him and even then, he’s cocked upside-down in their view.

“...Yes,” they answer, bright eyes fluttering open and shut. Their hood had fallen off when they tipped their head up to look at him, nearly resting it on his armored belly. He sighs and pats a cheek, watching nuzzle into his large palm openly. He feels his sour mood lift slightly at the well-meaning affection, and rubs the soft angle of their mouth, a pleased chirrup bubbling from the other archangel. Valor moves to sit near them, careful not to squish their feet; they almost immediately set their book aside, curling into his side without hesitation. They don’t say much, knowing he was in a bad mood--rather, they just sit there, enjoying the comforting heat he bears. Some indefinite period of time later, Malthael ends up at his other side, head resting to his chest, hand settled just above his knee. The elder falls asleep right there, settled comfortably even with all the armor. Imperius watches the way Wisdom hardly moves even while sleeping, still and quiet. He smiles faintly and drapes one ruddy-warm wing over the slender being, earning a soft sigh of content.

“Enjoying yourselves?” An ethereal, musical voice asks, Auriel stepping into view a moment later.

“Yes,” Fate immediately responds, slipping their hand down the inside of Valor’s arm to tangle their fingers with his. She gives a small noise of amusement, then moves to sit beside Itherael, laying her head to their shoulder comfortably. Imperius dozed off after another few moments of stillness, head lolled back against the couch as his chest rumbled in quiet snoring. Wisdom liked that, shuffling about audibly to get closer to the sound. Itherael does much the same, tucking themselves under the crook of Valor’s armpit. The armor is warm and they sigh, looking to Auriel as she too shifts closer. It's a comfortable, sleepy moment, not even broken when noisy Tyrael comes in, looking the other archangels over. Auriel pats the free spot next to her and he obliges, seating himself and letting himself be draped over her lap, sprawling halfway onto Fate. They don't seem bothered and reach to scratch his jawline, earning a pleased hum. Hope smiles and idly traces some of the intricate patterning on his armor, a few of his wings coiling up her arm and tangling neatly with Al’maiesh. The peace settled over the Council isn’t broken for hours, all five getting some much-needed rest.


	2. thanks, moth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some minimal gore, kissing and shit. nothing too nasty, i figure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um so meet your maker is a thing  
> why do i songfic off the weirdest shit????????? stop my horrible writing pls
> 
> [this might become an AU at some point, oops. im a sucker for "good version meets bad version and they become friends".]

The soul howled and flew out, swirling and writhing before flying away. He stared in alarm and looked around, twisting his gaze about to search for the other being that stole the precious commodity right out from under him. There off to his side, some warped version of himself stood, baring jagged teeth and spreading bloody red wings.

“What are you?” He demands, bringing his weapons to bear. The thing laughs, hallowed and much like his own laugh.

“I am the demons’ Reaper,” it hisses, advancing on him with its own funhouse-mirror version of his beloved tools. They clash, the Other Malthael seeming to enjoy the dragged out battle.   
“Why are you here?”   
“I am here to claim you.” Just the reply gets him worked up, and he delivers a blow to its arm, leaving blood blacker than even Diablo’s weeping from the injury, staining the bandages it wears in parallel to his. It howls a laugh, the dreadful sound echoing and filling his head with the suffering of a thousand agonizing deaths.

“Enough!” He snaps out, knocking the monster back.   
“Oh, surprising,” it hisses in reply, jaws weighted with large teeth twisting into a smug grin. “I’d have thought you more interested in putting a demon down. Especially considering your plans with the Stone.” He rears back, wings flaring slightly.   
“How did you-”   
“How did I know? Hah, you really have lost yourself. I am you, and you are Wisdom.” It stands, advancing again. He feels almost helpless pinned under that invisible gaze, slicked teeth shining in the dull twilight of Pandemonium’s fortress. He treads backward quickly, flinching when his back hits one of the walls. The thing keeps coming, cornering him and chuckling lowly. With a horrible shrieking scrape, it draws its talons over his armor, getting close enough he can smell the disgusting reek of its breath, which came hot and quick.   
“You put up a good fight, archangel. But now your time's up.”   
“On the contrary,” he growls, dropping the fearful facade. That brings it to hesitate, head tipping back slightly as it eyed him. He pushes off the wall, feigning left and diving right, grabbing it by its clawed left hand and slamming it face-first to the wall, jamming the limb up between sharp shoulder blades. It hisses, teeth scraping against the brick as it struggles, only allowing him to push the armored appendage higher between its wings. He watches it coldly for a long moment, studying the way it writhes under him, free hand scrabbling for any advantage to take. It mimics him impeccably, down to the intricate engravings on his armor and the fine stitching on his hood. 

“Like what you see,  _ Archangel? _ ” It gurgles at him, ruddy, smoky wings flaring open briefly for balance. He huffs lightly and kicks in the back of its knee, sparks flying for the instant of metal-on-brick as it slides to the ground, releasing his grip. The shriek of the impregnable materials does nothing to him and he brings a knee up, smashing that hideous face into the wall mercilessly. Blood and teeth collide with the already muddy ground when the thing spits off to one side, a crooked grin curling across its maw. “Ooh,  _ fierce.  _ When did you learn this? Did  _ Imperius  _ teach you?” It's taunting him, even as it sways and struggles to get to its feet. He says nothing, head tipping down as he fixes it with a withering glare. 

“Do not speak of him like that,” he snaps. It laughs softly, wiping its half-hidden face on its wrist. More blood soaks the cloth, and it cocks its head to one side.

“You know, you're all blue. Blue and purple. I'm red. Almost like someone you know.” He scowled at the jeer, swiping at it and knocking it to one side. It still laughs, growing confident--it wants to get a rise out of him and it's so  _ very _ hard to resist.

“Urzael… he lit himself on fire for you and died anyway. You're going to die, too, you disillusioned old  _ monster. _ ” It snarls the words and he grabs it by the front, jamming it back against the wall. 

“I should leave you here for the Nephalem to chew on,” he drawled, leaning close. It's the same position as just a moment ago, although reversed.

“Oh? So you're expecting guests. How rude of me to interrupt.”

“You are no better than your heathen brothers or sickening offspring. I was  _ expecting  _ interruptions at a demon’s hands.” He wants to impale the damned thing and abandon it to die at the mortal’s hands. The idea sounds so delightful; it'd give him precious few extra moments to complete his work and rid him of this ridiculous copy of himself. There's a grin, though, ripped into the black of that impossible face.

“Try it, Malthael. Impale me.” It grips his forearm, guiding the claws to its barely-armored belly. He always knew there was a flaw in his armor there, but it couldn't be fixed without completely revising his armor scheme. He looks between the place his fingers are splayed again, then the messy, wet gap of teeth that's bared at him. He hesitates-- _ don’t hesitate you old fool, _ he scolds himself, but there's wetness on his face and a taste like licking warm metal. He moves his free hand up and touches the spot, gingerly; his fingers come away stained with  _ light, _ and he feels dizzy.

“You wrote yourself into the stone. You wrote me into reality. You wrote that I would be all the evils in you, purged and made a living being. Everything you inflict on me is just being inflicted on yourself. Impale me and leave me to die--you'll find yourself bleeding and dying just as well.” It’s crazed, gripping his arm so tight the metal creaks faintly, and it leans closer to him. He’s frozen out of pure shock, alarmed at what he’s done to himself. Before he can curse himself or cry out for repentance, though, it shoves his hand aside, grabbing him by the upper arms and dragging him into a sloppy, bloody kiss. Black and white mingle in thin trails along their chins, the Other drawing away after a breathless moment. He feels sick and woozy, but it steadies him, propping him up with a shoulder up under his armpit, gauntleted hand slipping low against his hip and keeping him upright.

“I… I can't fix this,” he murmurs deliriously, looking to the monster holding him on his feet.

“No, you can't,” it concedes. “You're too much of a sentimental idiot. But, you can do what others cannot or  _ will  _ not and balance the good and evil.  _ You _ cannot fix this, but  _ we  _ can.” For once in its short lifespan, it doesn't grin, instead offering a slow, friendly smile. He feels like maybe they  _ can _ fix this. It will just take time, and lots of trial and error.

“The stone,” he murmurs, “I need to start with that.” It nods in agreement and starts walking him back into the fortress.

“Seems like as good a starting point as any.”


	3. protect me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> angry protective bird is angry  
> other bird is just tired

Things are  _ bad,  _ incredibly bad. He wards off another hellspawn, separating it from its head. Imperius is behind him, nursing a cleaved-open chest. He looks back, checking Valor over. The larger tips his head up defiantly.

“I am not dead yet,” he says bitterly.

“You are still heavily injured.” His wings dip in a frown when he sees the way light leaks through those thick fingers. Auriel can only come so fast, and he's worried that won't be fast enough. He only pauses to rip out the burning, screaming soul of some dying hellion, feeding himself with it to keep at the impossible pace he had set.

Behind him, Imperius is watching, observing the high, fluffy, stiff set of those brilliant lavender wings--the way he grips his weapons so tightly his already pale, faintly glowing knuckles were sure to be stark white. He’s being extremely defensive, feeding off the souls of these damned creatures to keep going; however he still showed the characteristic slumping sort of posture a tired person wears, exhaustion written into every line of him.

“Malthael,” he rumbled, coming closer. He gently draped one brilliant wing over the other, pulling him close but careful not to touch a drop of his ichor to those still-impeccable robes. “We need to slow down… you look exhausted.”

“My mental state isn't important right now,” Wisdom retorts irritably, looking to the relaxed set of that ornate helmet. He touches it gently on instinct, slipping the pad of his thumb against one of the eye holes.

“You should know it is always important to me.”

“And I do. But right now you're a priority.”


	4. Sip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mal is a lil shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, i've.... never actually played any of the diablo games [i know, heresy]  
> tell me if my sense of the lore is spotty anywhere

“So,” one said anxiously, baring teeth in a fearful smile, “this is the guy we killed?”

“My name is Malthael,” the archangel corrected. The mortals all mumbled and jostled about themselves, Imperius resting one massive hand over the thin shoulder of his superior.

“Yes, you did kill him. He lost himself and Tyrael had guided you to bring his demise. I admit, I had no better plan at the time either…” the surprisingly soft voice sounded regretful, and Wisdom merely shrugged slightly. He didn't seem to care either way about the smaller beings, looking down at them with a neutral expression from under his hood. Imperius seemed vaguely annoyed, but only vaguely; he'd already spent a few moments here to grow accustomed to the strange scent and appearance of them. The eldest merely gave a sound in the back of his throat, turning and walking to the other room--it had been stocked with various items at his request, since he was intending to remedy his original source of frustration with field study. The Nephalem and humans had protested to “being birdwatched”, but he brushed it off and warned them of what happens when he doesn't know something. Nobody seemed to want to fight him again, and thus allowed him to learn about them.

One trailed behind him--a female. He tipped his hood her way, giving a noncommittal hum in lieu of a greeting as he pulls a small pouch out of a box, taking down a mug with his other hand.

“I thought you couldn't eat or drink?” Says the mortal, coming closer to peer around him. He stops, leaning away. 

“We can do both, but neither are  _ necessary. _ ”

“Oh, huh. That's kinda neat.” He stares at her a moment longer before turning his attention back to his hands, filling the mug with hot water and curling a thread around one finger before letting the pouch drop in, talons making musical little clinking against the porcelain. He treads back out without another word, and sinks into a large chair tailored to his inhuman frame. Imperius is standing still, arms folded as he watches two people get in a heated debate.

“It looks like you and Tyrael,” Wisdom murmurs, glancing to the other. Valor decides not to verbally bite into the bait, but the way his wings heft slightly, growing brighter--but not hotter--says the barb still caught. His head tips slightly, and Malthael smirks, a slow, terrible thing. He hears a muted growl of  _ little shit,  _ and he pulls his lips from their place hardly touching the rim of his mug, the smirk vanishing in an instant. “When did you start cursing like the mortals?” It's not a question, it's a demand; Imperius smirks in that same way, fluffing himself up smugly.

“Ah, one picks up things here and there.” The elder rolls his eyes and reached up, gaining the mortals’ attention when he automatically hooked his fingers up under that silly studded loop of leather, yanking the fiery archangel down. To benefit the nephalem standing not two meters away, he speaks not in their tongue, but in his own musical one.

‘Two things,’ he said airily, ‘one, do not curse,  _ especially not like the mortals, _ and two, I can't believe you kept this thing on.’ He gives the collar a few tugs, punctuating his words. He enjoys the pitiful wheezing it draws, eyes going hooded at the sound.

‘I couldn't bear to take it off,’ Valor whispered, drawing interest even further.

“I didn't know Imperius  _ could _ be so quiet!” One says, sounding delighted. They turn, practically giggling as they receive money from another. Malthael scowled in disapproval, teeth flashing from the blackness for a brief moment. He looks to Imperius and lets go, pushing the other away in annoyance. 

‘Misbehave again--you know the consequences.’ He has a vague premonition that the younger  _ will,  _ just to receive the punishment. Nothing comes out of that helmet though, just heavy breathing that rattles the armor almost inaudibly. He brings the mug back to his lips, taking a long sip of the warm drink as he eyes the subtle movements his pet makes; a small tilt of hips, a faint heating of wings, the slightest shift of his head. Invitations. Quiet, pleading invitations. ‘I come back after so long and you  _ still _ can't keep it in your pants around me. You're a shameful little thing.’ He croons the words, low and teasing. Imperius winced and looked to the mortals--checking to see if they notice--shoulders dropping in shame, slanting down. He's submitting--the way his wings slowly dip just solidifies the fact. There's more chattering from the nephalem; Malthael happily ignores them in favor of taking another long sip, eying the tasteful curves of Valor’s waist. He takes a moment, in-between gulps of warm tea, to think of the way his hands look while running themselves over that pretty hourglass figure. He gives a slight hum, tilting his head as he lets his gaze drag over and around.

“Erm, what's that smell?” That snaps Wisdom from his reverie and he sits up slightly, flicking his chubby tongue out. The taste of sweetness and smoke was drawn in and he chuckled, shaking his head dismissively. 

“Imperius,” he replied, gesturing with his mug to the riled-up archangel in question.

“He smells like a forge.”

“He does when he’s aroused.” That earns him some wide-eyed stares, including from Valor himself. To emphasize his point, he flicks his tongue out again, drawing with it the heavy tang. “He's practically bending over for me.” A wry grin crosses his face, and he drops his hood a moment, the mortals all stunned by the angles and curves suddenly visible to them. He looks to them a moment, eyes-sans-pupils regarding them with disinterest before turning to Imperius. The glowing irises shift in their sockets, soft, dark eyelids drooping half-shut again. 

“That  _ thing _ is what an Archangel looks like under those hoods?”

“Only me. Each is unique, and even the angels that fall under our leadership look different than us. Another point--do not call me a thing.” He looks to the being who did so, tipping his head up slightly. He knows the sharp V-shape of the small fin-horns on his forehead looks more imposing at this angle, and all his eyes fix on that person, unmoving. He holds this posture a moment, then shakes his head and finishes his drink, standing fluidly. “Imperius. Room. Be ready by the time I'm done with this.” He lifts the cup slightly, moving back into the kitchen. He chuckled to himself at the clink and scrape of armor quickly being removed, and pushes his tongue out one last time to taste that delightful scent--like sticking one’s face in the heavy leather gloves a blacksmith uses. It'd be even stronger between those weighty legs.


	5. tyrael is gross

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [first nsfw posting in this lol]

“What do you think?” Imperius purrs, gently pulling Itherael closer and squashing the smaller between them. Tyrael is gasping, panting heavily as he’s smothered in fat chests.

“I-I think we should do this again,” Justice whines, licking a stripe across Fate and drawing a shiver. His hands are grabbing everything within reach of him, kneading muscle and grabbing to pinch at skin. His wings are squirming and shuddering, hips moving in search of friction. They’re sandwiching him between themselves, mashing him in a bundle of warm muscle and skin. He’s stammering something unintelligible, groping mindlessly and leaving his mouth open and head tipped back like a hungry chick. On occasion his gaping, noisy mouth will be sealed and silenced by another mouth, greedy kisses stealing his tongue and leaving his lips fat. He can only cry out in pleasure when he's finally stuffed full, both of them cool and slick in his desperate hole. He loves the dizzy, foggy feeling clogging up his thoughts, leaving him with raw sensation and little else. He faintly notices he's no longer on the ground, instead held up by wandering hands and the angles of two sets of hips. It's a lovely sensation, being used like this.


	6. Modern-ish setting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> self-indulgent shit of imperius in a tight shirt  
> also practice writing fight stuff

It’s become customary for mortals and angels to wear each other’s traditional clothing when visiting each other’s realms. This has led to even the Archangels donning simplistic human clothing when stopping by. A few humans have gone above and beyond--taking angelic armor and crafting finely detailed copies from whatever materials available.

Currently, Imperius is lecturing to some mortal soldiers, discussing the tactics of hand-to-hand combat. Tyrael is sitting nearby, watching him from the sidelines. He’s quite animated about it, gesturing in the air and showing exactly how to make and counter a number of moves. A few are confused, and Valor scratches his chin in thought.

“I could show you, if I got a volunteer.” His eyes scan over the crowd, and Tyrael grins, raising a hand and waving. 

“I can help,” he chirps, running up when the bigger rolls his eyes and nods.

“I’d almost think you want to be beat in front of these mortals,” he teases, shuffling some mats over to give the ground more padding. Justice bounces a bit, grinning and prodding playfully. 

“Aw you know me, Imperius. I can't deny you if you need a sparring partner.” The mortals all get each other’s attention, pointing them out like it's a spectacle to see them flirting like this, with combat and affectionate threats. As soon as the mats are set, they take stance and eye each other, Imperius leaning forward in a weighty position, ready to strike. Tyrael is much the same, hunched, arms pulled up defensively. He throws the first swing, missing by a good bit--not a surprise. He doesn't even have time to blink before Imperius comes front on, looping one arm around his chest, swiping a leg under him and throwing him flat on his back. Valor watches and straightens, shaking a bit with laughter. 

“You weren't even trying!” A hand comes down and he grabs on, heaving himself back onto his feet. “Now actually put up a fight. I know you can.” There’s that tone-- _ damn him, _ Tyrael thinks--sweet yet serious, coaxing him. It's hardly more than a pleasant rumble and it irritates him enough he does want to put up a fight just to make him shut up. They resume their stances, again Tyrael throwing the first punch. It's a low blow, drawing an “oof” from Valor before he blocks a second hit, stepping away. He’s watching Justice pull back, another quick strike thrown high--dodged easily, but grabbed. The smaller squeaks in surprise and briefly wonders if he's going to be pulled into a kiss, judging by the intensity of those blazing orange eyes. Instead, though, Imperius twists, pulling Tyrael over his back, shoulder, and half through the air. He jerks his weight though and lands it, wrenching his wrist out of the other’s grip and turning. He grins at the stunned look written into that handsome face, and throws a hard punch that actually lands, throwing Valor back with a  _ whack. _ He staggers, hand jumping to his face. The other’s thrown out as counterbalance, and Tyrael ducks, giving the bigger no time to recover as he scrunched his neck up, closing his eyes and praying that this works. He slams a shoulder in that toned gut, wrenching upward and flinging Imperius over and behind him. There's a grunt and by the time he turns, he ends up being tackled, trapped in on one side with a bulky arm, pinned to a huge chest and dragged to the ground. They land almost in a cuddling position, and there's a growl next to his head that makes him laugh aloud, turning his gaze to that pretty face, gently bopping their heads together.

“Better,” is all the bigger says, pushing up off the mat to hang there, shirt hardly hanging off him. Justice smirks at the sight of all that power, and gets a light cuff as punishment.

“Hey! I can't help that you're like eye candy to me.”

“Not in front of the students,” he huffs, pushing himself into a standing position. The smaller stands shortly after, straightening out his shirt and humming to himself in amusement as he tips his head, eying the mortals.

“Say, Imperius, it sure is  _ hot  _ in here,” he drawls, hand sneaking under the hem of his shirt as he sets a hand on his hip. Valor grunts and rolls his eyes at him for the second time today, shaking his head.

“I'm not falling for that, Tyrael,” he growls, moving to return to his lecture.

“Aw come on, just this once? I don't get to see you outside your armor often, let alone in something so form-fitting. Just seems fair to discard the shirt altogether, right?” He brushes orange wing tendrils aside to get at Imperius, latching onto his arm. The larger seraph gives a vaguely irritated noise at him, wiggling his trapped arm in a botched effort to free it. Justice just hangs on tighter, looking up at him with a pleading little pout. He scowled and looked up to his students, who all seem unperturbed.

“Go ahead,” one calls, and the smaller archangel grins, letting go. Imperius grumbles something that sounds almost like a prayer for forgiveness under his breath, then crosses his arms over his torso, making a show of pulling it up over his head, then dropping it aside carelessly. There’s some whistling from the crowd and Tyrael giggled, high and very un-archangel-like.

“They like you too,” he chirrups, coming closer to steal a kiss on that pretty, sharp collarbone. Valor watches him, squinting a little when he wraps his arms around the thick waist, resting his head on that burly chest. There's a soft chittering, clearly coming out of the smaller, and he flutters his blue wings. “Have I ever told you that you’re the absolute best?”

“Yes. Now can I go back to teaching?”

“Mm, not just yet. I need a moment to soak all this in.” There's a light pat to one bicep and he sighs, letting his head lean back.

“I hope this  _ moment _ doesn't take all day.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unfinished thing insp'd by a thing on tumblr

Seraphim avoid him as if he has some sickening plague. He understands exactly why; not even Angels--immortal as they are--wish to meet the unseen eyes of Death. Every breath that he draws  _ sings _ with the sweet, reassuring flavor of souls, and he feels electric in some deep-rooted, indiscernible way. The others don't even dare look in his direction, instead murmuring amongst themselves about madness and obsession.

_ Hmph. What do they know, _ he thinks bitterly to himself, passing through the Council’s halls like a whisper or a shadow. If his plans here come to fruition they will look at him with nothing but elation, anyway. The meeting chamber is empty besides Imperius, who is seated, scrawling something in a book with fervor. He looks up and immediately seems filled with sorrow, wings dropping low and dim.

“Malthael,” he says softly, standing and moving closer slowly. His huge hands are up, a pacifying gesture that Wisdom ignores in favor of coming in close, swatting the hands away and grabbing that head. Valor gives a long, sad wail as he’s brought down, helmet ringing with the impact against the elder’s knee. He staggers back, staying upright but barely. Solarion comes down in a flash, Imperius giving a sound like a choked sob as he rights himself, pulling the spear up. He doesn't advance, just holding the weapon and watching his leader with shame and fear. Malthael hisses and comes close again, pushing the larger back to the wall. His clawed gauntlet comes up, brushing feather-light against the side of that ornate helm, pulling at the very threads of his soul, wisps of it weaving around the long fingers.

“Malthael, please,” he whimpers, head rolling and dropping to one side weakly.

“You would not strike me down, Imperius,” comes the matter-of-fact reply. “You hesitate even when I attack you directly.”

“You are an archangel,” he cries out, grabbing one covered hip bone and swinging the elder round to pin him instead. He grips both skinny wrists with one hand, keeping Malthael completely held. “I would not dare to strike down one of my own people.”

“You wouldn't even do it if you knew I had purloined the soulstone? Or that I nearly killed Tyrael? Or even that I have come with the explicit purpose of ending your reign over heaven to bring about a new order?” He's calm outwardly, but Valor knows he isn't sane right now.

“No. I love you, despite your actions. I know you are unwell. Let me help you.” He’s pleading even as Wisdom writhes, wings thrown open and jerking as he tries to free himself from those powerful hands.


	8. baddies au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part of miss_gem's demon au :3

Death is the most neutral--aloof and painfully distant as he is. He doesn't interest himself with anyone in Hell, or anything, besides Wrath; his irritating ignorance drives Pride to a breaking point after centuries of unintentional antagonizing. The other three--lesser evils but still great evils all the same--have decided to make things even worse, what with their incessant taunts and constant mocking. Death confronts him, on his way to attack Fate for leaving disgusting lies all over his home in the form of handwritten notes.

“You have let your aspect pull your eyes closed,” the reaper says coldly, chin up. He might be blind and wear much to hide his disfigured face and body, but it didn’t take a genius to see that Pride was a spiteful little monster, bent on getting what he liked and not sharing.

“And? Isn’t that  _ encouraged  _ by someone?” His voice is accusing, and Death laughs aloud.

“Let me correct myself, then. Your arousal for Wrath has made you blinder than I am!” He tilts his head as if he’s talking to some fresh spawn. “You are attacking the finest tactician we have for your own petty reasons. That’s why I’ve come to intercept your foolish bumbling.”

“Foolish bumbling?!” Pride screeches, and there’s more scornful laughter from the older demon.

“What would you call it, Pride? Would you call it a noble crusade to get Wrath in your bed? Would you call it sharp reason bringing you clarity and strength? No!” The smaller howls, pouncing at the taller, lankier demon.

“Be quiet!” Death just laughs at him, grappling with him viciously.

“Pride goeth before the fall,” the blind demon sneers.

“You're the one who will be falling,” Pride barks, teeth bared. He won’t let his own disillusion stop him.


End file.
